MISSIONARY SUCCESS.-It is calculated that at the present moment there are in heathen lands upwards of a million and a quarter of living Christians, who, but for the labours of missionaries during the last sixty years, would all have remained idolaters, “ What hath GOD wrought !” THE LIFE-BOAT. CHAPTER 1.—TO THE RESCUE. WHEN the wind blew on shore, and there was plenty of it, it made rough weather at Waterford. Then the whole force of the ocean would beat against the big rocks that stood out of the water, and made a roar like thunder. The little town was snug enough in the shelter of the two steep cliffs, and lay between them, as the sailors said, like an egg in a nest. A little beyond the town was the CoastGuard station ; and further along the coast, but still in the bay, lay scattered a few fishermen's cottages. It is into one of these we must look on the evening our tale begins. Perhaps it was because the wind howled, and it looked dismal out of doors, that this seemned particularly cheerful. There was a bright fire, a clean cloth spread for supper, a savoury smell, and, better than all, a | pleasant, comely woman moving about busy preparing the evening meal. The husband was sitting over the fire smoking his pipe. It was easy to see they were comfortable and " well-to-do." Everything in the bright, though humble, little room said so, from the polished pots and pans to the snowy table-cloth. The good woman, Mary Allen, talked on as she stood over the fire attending to the frying-pan ; and she seemed to have the talk pretty much to herself, for it was only now and then that the sailor took his pipe out of his mouth to speak. “I'm sorry to hear the wind so high, Allen”— she went on—"it's quite a rough night ; we shall have plenty of it now, I expect. I quite dread the winter coming on ; what I went through last, no one can tell : what with one thing and another, and you being out almost always at the worst: and then since that life-boat has been here (though I know it's a fine thing), I suffer worse than ever I did; I wish with all my heart you did not belong to it; for now when you are at home a bit in bad weather, one's never safe; it's bad enough to go out in the smack in roughish weather, but when it comes to storms and wrecks, oh! dear, no one knows how bad I feel. I ought to be used to it by this time, but I really seem to grow more fearsome instead of getting any braver.” “It would have been all very well if you had only kept your fears to yourself all these years, and not have ended in making your son as great a coward as yourself." Mary looked round surprised at the angry tone of her husband, but he went on— “Yes, Mary, I mean it; it's all very well for a woman to be afraid, but that a great big fellow like Tom should fear the water, puts me out: and when I've worked, and worked, and ended in buying that boat (and she's a real beauty), and then find you’ve got a son who tries to cut the whole concern, and don't take to the sea, I say it's a crying shame, and many fathers would be a deal harder than I am about it. I say he's a coward, and you've made him one.” “Oh father, don't speak so hard.” said his wife, “it isn't the lad's fault.” “Then, whose fault is it? Not mine, I'm sure; I've never feared anything on sea or land since I’ve been born.” “No, not yours, Allen, but mine; and I can only say I'm sorry enough for it.” With a soft answer the good woman was trying to turn aside his wrath. “Idon't wonder you're vexed, for Tom doesn't take kindly to the water, it's natural you should be; but, oh! there's lots of other ways of making a good living besides the sea, and Tom's clever at book-learning of all sorts; he's first at the Youths' Institute, and Mr. Stanly, I know, thinks a good deal of him.” “Bother the books and the Institute!" broke in Allen. “They've been at the bottom of making the boy hate the sea.” “No, no,” said the mother. “I tell you it is only me as is in fault, and I'll tell you how, if you'll listen. Can't you recollect that it was not long before Tom was born—nineteen years ago come Christmas—that you were brought in that dreadful night of the wreck more like a dead than a living man? The shock I felt was so great, I’ve always thought I gave the child the fright, for many's the time, when he was quite a baby, I've had him in my arms by the sea; and if it was the least rough, and when I've seen other children quite delighted, nothing would get him to look at it; but he would bury his little head in my shoulder and cry; and when he got bigger, and you were out in bad weather, the child would lie wide-awake thinking and talking of you. I'm afraid it's always been, and will be always, though he never speaks of it, and would never show it with you, however much he suffered. I'm sure I'm very sorry, but you know I could not help it.” That man must have been a harder one than Joe Allen who could be angry with a wife who had suffered so much for him and who spoke so gently, so he said, “Well, never mind, Polly! you could not help it; and if you don't mind your son giving up a fine, thriving trade, I suppose I mustn't ; though it's a pity, for, I'll stick to it, there's no business like it; and if a man once gets a boat like the “Lively, his fortune's made, I consider. I don't say Tom isn't a steady lad enough, but that he's a coward at sea, I know; but there—” here he stopped, and, knocking the ashes from his pipe, added, “I’ll say no more, as it makes me angry; so let's get to supper, there's a good soul, for I see the bacon's done." “Yes, it's all ready now,” said his wife, with her hands full, and glad to change the subject, “I’ll go and tell Why, Tom how you startled me; and pray how long have you been in the room " for, on turning round, there was her son standing by the table, and she saw from his pale, angry face that he had heard their talk. * I've just come down, mother; but I’ve been long enough in the room to hear my father call me a coward—it's a hateful thing to be ; and if any one else dared to say the same, I’d -“ Hush, hush, Tom not another word,” said his mother, putting her hand on his arm ; “don’t be angry, your father only said you were a coward at sea, and that's all my fault; and you wouldn't blame your mother, Tom 7” The young man was choking with anger and shame, but his love for his mother was greater than all, and he was silent. All this time the wind had been rising, and was now blowing a gale in which the fisherman's cottage quite rocked. Allen had turned to his son, and was going to speak, when they were interrupted by a knocking at the door. Mrs. Allen was glad of anything to prevent what she feared might end in high words between her husband and son, who were in general such good friends, so she hastened to undo the door. It was shut with difficulty after a young girl had entered all wet and blown about. It was Maggie, daughter of Ellis the coastguardsman, a neighbour of the Allens; she was almost too much out of breath to speak, but soon managed to tell her errand to Allen. “Father and Jack are getting out the life-boat, and told me to run to you, Master Allen; there's a ship in distress, —a brig, they think, but it's hard to make out; it's a very wild sea to-night.” While she spoke Allen was putting on his sou'-wester and jacket, and was ready to start almost before the words were said. Tom, too, had been equally quick, and in two minutes they were ready for the beach. As the door was being opened, Tom, with his white face, whispered to his mother, “Don’t be afraid, mother; God bless you!” “Oh, Tom I hope your father won't be drowned.” The father heard this, and turned for an instant to his wife, “Don’t be afraid, Polly; I'll come back all right. There's no danger in a life-boat, you know; don't look at the sea, but at the supper, old lady. We shall want it when we come back; goodbye, - we shan't be long.” They were gone, and the poor woman was once more left to her fears, and to prayer—her only comfort on many such nights as the present. (To be continued.) A BLEssed DAY-What a blessed day is Sunday to the weary man, who necessarily catches but brief glimpses of home during the toiling week; who is off in the morning while little eyes are still closed in slumber, and not back at night till they are again sealed by sleep. What would he know of the very children for whom he toils were it not for the blessed breathing respite of Sunday ! What honest working man's child will ever forget this day, when, clean and neat, it is its joy to climb its father's knee, and hang about his neck, and tell him all the news which goes to make up his narrow little world ! “Narrow,” did we say ? we recall the word, for it widens out into the boundless ocean of eternity. Sunday for the working man's children | So would we have it—a day hallowed by sweet, pure, home influences; when the little band, quite complete, shall rest from labour, and Love shall write it down the blessed day of all the seven. HE who knows not what it is to labour knows not what it is to enjoy. |